Craved by an Alien

by Amanda Milo

  Angie’s oblivious. She’s staring at ME.

  I shrug. “Who doesn’t like Key lime?”

  “It doesn't have enough chocolate.”

  I pause. “It doesn’t have any chocolate.”

  She gestures at me. “EXACTLY. That’s exactly the problem. I mean, I thought if it was s’mores that maybe they’d be a little salty, but who cares? Salt and chocolate go great together.”

  They really do.

  “But salty Key lime?” she shudders.

  With her eyes squeezed shut, she doesn’t see that I shudder too. Fuck, why did I bring up Key lime?

  Her smile is back on full force. “Tell me you’re shitting me!”

  “Yes, I’m shitting you,” I say, and movement has me glancing over to see Dohrein making a face—to see all the aliens making faces. I point around at them. “I believe we’re freaking them out.”

  Dohrein’s earnestly serious when he says, “The attraction to this phrase continues to escape me. And considering what the base of the word is, it seems this is a good thing.”

  We all crack up.

  I ball up my napkin and apply Dohrein’s waterless cleanser. I rub it vigorously over my hands. “Hob baby gravy really does taste like s’mores. There, you happy over there?”

  “I weirdly am happy to hear this, which I realize is really weird, now that we got all of that out of the way. But at least it isn’t Key lime.”

  She has no fucking idea.

  “Since we’re in the mood to overshare, I want to state that I love s’mores,” Laura adds and Crispin smiles down at her.

  They’re kinda awwww.

  Ella drops down at our table, and I feel intense relief that she didn’t arrive a moment sooner. Because Ella is mated to the Aneark, the alien that brought me out of the Underwater Dome.

  And rather unfortunately, I happen to know that he tastes like Key Lime.

  CHAPTER 28

  GRACIE

  Just about the time the wagon arrives (which Laura says is hitched troika style to its three harnessed alien beasts that are not Rakhii—they’re actual beast-of-burden alien animals) for pebble-loading, Amy and Grake arrive. Grake, looking like the grease-monkey he is, and her in Earth clothes because she took her wardrobe with her when she was boosted with a head’s up from home.

  Grake is strangely reluctant to let Amy lift much.

  She rolls her eyes but she hugs him and sits down in the shade. “I’m pregnant,” she explains to everyone nosily watching.

  Of course we’re nosily watching. We don’t have telly. We are each other’s telly.

  “He’s a hoverer,” she adds.

  I eye her slightly mussed hair. “How’d you get the grease in your ‘mane,’ dear? What sort of hovering was he doing, exactly?”

  Amy laughs and flips me the bird.

  Mandi passes me three cookies, with a sigh of, “You called it,”—and I nod in acknowledgement and bite into one.

  I did call it. When they took their time showing up, I’d said it was because they were busy babymaking—evidently they were perfecting their technique since the feat’s already been achieved. I should have wagered on that. Angie, who wouldn’t bet against the possibility, just shakes her head.

  Callie who would have taken the bet just for fun passes me nothing, because Zadeon told me I wasn’t allowed to take any of Callie’s sweets. Not even if we made a bet! How does he expect us to play if she bets, but they’re only invisible cookie chips?

  When I complained, “There’s no stakes if there’s no danger of losing something!”

  Zadeon’s spines had done this creepy, slow-rise thing. “Take her cookies, and there will be danger aplenty of you losing something.”

  Overprotective aliens, geez.

  We’re standing up, donning our gear, getting ready to hike our pebbles to the bed of the wagon when one of the troika rears up.

  “Crite and infernofire,” Bash growls. “Humans, move back!”

  A weird cry tickles the air: the creature’s completely up on its rear legs, straining the harness rigging it shares with the other two and jostling the wagon sideways, then backwards. Its coat color matches the rocks, and with cloven hooves, ears that curl inward so the tips nearly brush each other, and antelope horns—it’s one funky looking critter.

  Despite Bubashuu staring it down as he calmly steps forward, the animal jigs until a harness strap snaps.

  “That makes strike four,” one of the hobs under Bash’s employ comments.

  Bubashuu makes a supremely irritated noise. “Comm the Garthmaw.”

  “His cost a fortune.”

  Bash’s ears flatten and the hob looks like he’s wondering why he’d utter anything that would sound like he’s questioning the giant alien’s order. Bash slowly inhales but keeps his voice level. “His are WORTH a fortune. If we’d just purchased his stock from the beginning we wouldn’t have spent the last half-solar failing to train this thickskull.”

  “We tried. He hasn’t had any stock for sale, not since he purchased a human at the auction.”

  The animal bares six curved ivory crunchers as Bash nears it.

  Bubashuu’s horns dip as he tilts his head. “Let’s hope he has time to ream out this one’s bad habits.” He grabs the creature under the curve of its chin. “Enough of this. You snap one more strap and I’ll eat you myself.”

  Contrary to his words, he’s gently rubbing its face, working his fingers until they fit behind it’s c-shaped ear, and he keeps at it until the creature’s eyelids grow heavy and its hindquarters slump in satisfaction.

  Bash reaches over it to grab the strap—and with his free hand, blocks just before the animal’s fangs meet his face.

  “Goodness,” I whisper. “It was so fast!”

  Rings of tassels loop around the animal’s neck and it’s these Bash grabs, tightening them until he’s forehead to forehead with the thing. “Keep those teeth in your mouth or your head will be the last thing I roast. I’ll start with the teveking feet you can’t seem to keep on the ground—”

  He jerks the animal back only to bring it crashing into his own head, right between his big horns.

  Stumbling, the animal blinks once, eyelids working sideways. It licks its teeth submissively and releases a small moo. But it doesn’t pick up those hooves.

  “Better,” Bash grunts. He roughly shoves it back so it’s more or less in line with the other two, reaches over its back again—and only if you’re watching closely would you see that he’s keeping an eye on the bitey end of the cart animal—and he fits a metal band over the broken halves of the harness, crimping them together. With his bare hand.

  Bending metal.

  With his BARE HANDS.

  If I’d seen the crushing power of a Rakhii up close, would I tease them as often as I do?

  I whisper a provoking, “I think I’m a thrill-seeker.”

  Dohrein’s wing hooks my elbow, his eyes not leaving Bash and the creature. “Allow me to suggest safer alternatives for you to seek.”

  I pet his claw. “That might defeat the purpose.”

  “You’ll live another day to chase another thrill.”

  “There is that benefit,” I muse.

  When Bubashuu is done, he steps away and motions to the lot of us. “Get moving, princesses. The cart isn’t going to fill itself and I hear humans’ weak eyes make their hands useless after dark.”

  Somebody doesn’t have a woman showing him what her hands can do in the dark. To Dohrein, I mutter, “I want to say so many things…”

  Dohrein’s hand covers my mouth. “Restrain yourself or you might be the next one training with the Garthmaw.”

  I heave a pebble onto the cart, and pant, “Do you think he uses a riding crop?”

  Dohrein eyes me as if he’s not sure where the trap is but he knows it exists. “It’s likely…”

  He catches me in his wings before I can do more than, “Ooooh!” and I end up finishing my happy noise in the dark. He doesn’t releas
e me until I stop struggling.

  For my good behavior, he pats me when he lets me go but abruptly says, “Don’t misbehave. I’ll return swiftly.”

  “Don’t misbehave? Do you even know who I am?”

  It didn’t escape my notice that more humans are arriving with their aliens. What did escape my notice is how Crispin’s handling it.

  I wonder if Crispin knows he’s among a group of women who can—and do—really empathize, because the influx of newcomers and the formation of a growing crowd is uncomfortable for quite a few of us, I’m sure.

  Dohrein heads for him, and I work to distract myself. Actual work, not troublemaking—that just happens wherever I go.

  I catch a snippet of Angie’s conversation when she says, “The one with the gnarly horns, DeAnn’s Rakhii—gosh, they’re so sweet together!—is Kingle, and—”

  I laugh, drawing their gazes. “For a second there, I thought you said Kegel, and I was going to be like, ‘I’ve got to meet this one, he sounds like a fun bloke.’”

  She shakes her head and I grin as I add, “But he’s Rakhii, so how much fun can he really be, right?”

  Predictably, Angie and Callie gasp in outrage, but just as they do, I spy Dohrein on his way back, so I raise my voice a little and smile at them coyly. “But he’s Rakhii, so he’s got to be hot, right?”

  Angie, seeing Dohrein too and totally aware of what I’m doing, deadpans, “Really hot.”

  Arokh’s hands clamp on her hips as he leans around her so he can see her face.

  She throws up her hands. “Just kid—”

  “Tut tut,” I shush her just as Dohrein reaches my side, and glowers down at me in warning. His wings puff up a little and I can hear the tell-tale rattle start. I smile up at him serenely. “Uh oh. Did you hear that?”

  He looks like he could bang the sass out of me right here, but we’re going to have to practice delayed gratification because Hotahn’s bringing the kids back this way.

  That, and Bubashuu might dump a load of boulders on us.

  I pat Rein’s leg. “Don’t worry, no Rakhii for me. Look at Callie’s; he’s a menace.”

  When Callie starts to protest, I point to her alien. “Fess up: if Callie said she wished she had my hair, you’d hold me down and chop mine off for her.”

  Callie starts to protest again—more, but Zadeon nods solemnly. “I would.”

  Then he goes back to patting his kid all gently and it’s the cutest thing. With what he just admitted, it’s also the most disturbing thing.

  Callie slaps her hands over her mouth, shocked.

  Frankly, so am I, and I sort of expected this. “Z, that’s pretty creepy.”

  “And WRONG,” Callie bursts out.

  Zadeon looks down at her, not worried enough to attempt to be reassuring. To me.

  To her, he says, “I don’t mean to cause you distress.”

  Psychopaths, all of them. Adoring ones, but still.

  I turn to Dohrein. “Okay, seriously. I’ll level with you: I sort of do want one for a pet. They’re cool, but so dangerous, you know?”

  “That’s almost a relief,” Arokh says. “For a click there, I wasn’t sure you were aware enough to register fear.”

  “Nah, it’s not like that. I’m not afraid of Z,” I assure him.

  Arokh winces at Dohrein. “Your mate has a very short life expectancy.”

  Dohrein cuts me a look like, ‘Don’t prove him right and stop egging on the gladiators.’

  I send him a sweet smile, and, taking a temporary break from work, I hunt around in my messenger bag, find the gift I brought, and I toss it to Callie.

  It’s a bag of dog tennis balls.

  Callie tips her head, looking unimpressed.

  I stop. “What?” Then I laugh. One of my favorite pet names for Zadeon is Cujo. “Wait up: this isn’t a dog joke, ha! I got them for Z’s horns.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know how they cut open the green balls and put them on the ends of sharp things?”

  Callie blinks slowly. Actually… that’s a good idea.”

  I send a look at Dohrein when I say, “I know.”

  Mandi looks a bit lost by herself, so I motion her over. “Get your arse over here and be included.”

  Mandi gets off her cat-given seat and takes a step in my direction, but seems to question if I was really inviting or just flapping my gums for the hell of it.

  I clear it up for her. “My intention was intentional. I don’t call over just anybody; you should be flattered.”

  “You said arse,” Cricket informs me.

  “You want to find out how you stop a Cricket from chirping?” I lift my shoe theatrically.

  “Are you threatening her?”

  It’s Akita. Of course it’s Akita.

  “She—” Cricket starts.

  Doc gently covers Cricket’s mouth with her hand. “We need to have a talk about tattling.”

  Akita looks uncomfortable—I think because Doc is silencing his kid, but at the same time, he respects and more importantly, trusts Doc, so he doesn’t undermine her action or words by interfering.

  I shove another pebble onto the cart. “It’s amazing he lets you do that.”

  One of Doc’s elegant brows takes a hike. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s so protective of his kids.”

  “Our kids,” she corrects.

  I take a pebble from Doc. “How did he get you to sign onto that, by the way?”

  Her smile is sly. “You don’t know this?”

  I sense the change in Dohrein; he’s gone birddog still and I’m not even watching him. “Did you hear that, love?”

  He presses himself beside me. “Doc just informed us that there are events we haven’t been informed of. We want to be informed. Tell us more, please.”

  Doc covers Cricket’s ears. “Well, apparently some queen bee presiding over all the hobs and Rakhii on Earth told him that children need a mother, or else he wouldn’t be allowed to keep Levi and Kaylee.”

  “Queen bee,” I muse. “Do I like this title?”

  “It does have ‘queen’ in it,” Dohrein points out.

  I tip my head. “True.”

  “So I’m minding my business, headed into work for an early surgery—cherry eye on the sweetest Rottweiler ever—when I get accosted by this creeper flashing his junk. My feelings went from extreme disgust to complete, I mean complete surprise when an alien walking two children made the man apologize.”

  “He made the creeper… apologize.” I scoot forward just as Dohrein does. “Oh, this I have to hear. How’d he do it?”

  She shakes her head. “Long story short, the same creature later stormed into my office and demanded that I get into his mini spacecraft.”

  “Can Akita make us popcorn for this story?” I ask.

  Dohrein looks down at me.

  I open my hands. “So that you can stay by me, not because his popcorn is superior to your popcorn.”

  “Are we still talking about food or have you made this dirty?” Angie asks cautiously. “Because with you I can honestly never tell.”

  Dohrein asks, “What was the deciding factor that compelled you to board his miniature spacecraft?”

  Angie cries. “Seriously! I can’t tell!”

  Doc gives Dohrein a look. “Did you not hear the ‘demand’ part?”

  Cricket twists to look up at Doc, and Doc releases one of her cupped ears to brush a hand affectionately over her hair.

  Dohrein smirks. “If you’d been firm in saying no, he’d have found another female.”

  Hotahn abruptly cuts in by way of snagging Doc’s hand. “You had kind eyes.”

  “You didn’t really see my eyes until after you barged into my office,” Doc points out.

  He shrugs. “Once I did, my search was over.”

  She sends him a scorching hot look.

  I jump on Dohrein. “Ooooh, Hotahn’s getting a lucky shower tonight. Hey, by the by—have you tried giving him a n
ip yet?”

  Doc looks puzzled. “A what?”

  “A nip. A bite. It’s hot,” I inform her.

  Mandi mutters, “Anything but biting,” and she shudders.

  I’ve seen the scar on the back of her neck. I noticed it when I was introducing her to my hand. Whatever creature left that ragged mess on her skin was not playing right. “There’s bad biting and there's good biting. Any time your pussycat needs pointers, of course I’m awesome at it, I can help. Same offer for you when it comes to treating your kitty right—”

  I look around helplessly. “I promise I wasn’t even trying to make that last one dirty. It’s almost too easy.”

  Dohrein snorts. “Don’t attempt to imply your propensity for innuendo disturbs you.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “I prefer other things in your mouth,” he offers helpfully. He tweaks my nose, nimbly avoiding my teeth when I snap at his hand—then pressing his thumb past my lips for an intentional suck and nip.

  Mandi makes a gagging sound. I indicate Dohrein. “But back to biting: it’s like pulling a trigger—every time.”

  “I also like it when you squeeze my buttock,” Dohrein offers.

  “You’re such a geek.” I grin. “I love to squeeze your arse.”

  Cricket’s being completely muffled in Doc’s shirt, right next to her brother so she couldn’t have possibly heard me but Hotahn says, “No.”

  I give him a disbelieving look. “No, I can’t say arse? And SERIOUSLY.”

  Doc lets the kids up and ignores us, calmly uncapping a chilled coffee and taking a ladylike sip.

  Hotahn heaves up a rock that probably weighs more than all the women in this circle combined. She spares him a cute little couples-glance, but she doesn’t get involved in the discussion.

  Exasperated, I ask, “What IS your favorite word? Because if no’s not it, then it sure is your favorite command.”

  He drops the rock in, making the wagon sink a few centimeters and creak terribly. Unconcerned, he dusts off his hands. “My favorite word and favorite command are the same.”

  I scoff. “Let’s hear it.”

  Hotahn’s eyes lock on Doc. “‘Harder.’”

  Doc coughs into her drink, sending coffee sprinkles into the air like fireworks.